


Down Poison

by RNandSniper



Series: Intentionally Misfiled Reports [7]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RNandSniper/pseuds/RNandSniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst news tears at Illya's soul sending him away from his comrades.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Poison

The red plastic receiver crumbled in Illya’s grip. He turned and threw the telephone against the far wall of the room and did not notice snapping cords disconnecting the international call. The sound of the radio upstairs might have masked the results of his temper, but he neither considered this nor noticed the melody. Illya stood, the wicker chair tumbling away from him and he gripped the surface of the desk; throwing his weight against it and feeling the rebound from the wall. Dry plaster floated up into the air. He circled the bare room, shattering small lamp on the bedside table, overturning papers and books on a shelf. The otherwise bare room could not hold enough to keep him there. 

The words would not stop ringing in his head. Illya fled. He left the room, out the front door, leaving it open behind him. He hopped the fence, and ran. He didn’t hear small footsteps dash down the stairs, or see the swirl of blue nightgown fold down in the open door. 

It was late and the expanse of Central Park loomed in the distance. Deep shadows drew him to hide, and he knew he would not be alone under the cover of trees. No one with a soul moved on those back paths and alleys Illya followed. It was not good men he meant to surround himself with; it was not his comrades he wanted to encounter. Protecting his partners was not a conscious motivation, but being here saved them from what he might helplessly do. Illya understood he had not been followed into his unconscious urge to be withdrawn from restrictions of civilization and feel the world shake. 

Denial was over, a pointless refuge. A moment of dumb silence on the phone only allowed the KGB contact to fill in more details. Illya sat in enraptured attention involuntarily tightening his hold, and did not feel the bite of the cracking plastic into his hand and fingers. The caller had painted a delicate picture of violence, sexuality and ignominy Illya could not banish from his mind. He could not have envisioned a worse end, not in his darkest psychotic dreams as a maltreated youth, to the bitter musings he supressed as an adult. It was a haunting reproduction of the last night he had been innocent.

Illya’s steps carried him deeper away from urbanization and community and sent him towards the desperation and depravity he sought. A group of five men in shirtsleeves, sweating despite the chill night air, sat together, red-eyed and twitching. The noise of them drew Illya, as they were talking too loudly while saying nothing at all. They catcalled and cursed his approach, slurs and threats and baseless grandstanding. Two bravely stepped up to Illya. He could feel their addiction driving the need for his money, their addiction covering their own flawed personalities. It was a familiarity he shared with these men who would never understand what had happened to them, but it was made easy for Illya do what he craved. The pop of switchblades was the first sound he distinguished from the din and the blood rushing through his ears. Illya let them swipe at him ignoring the new feeling of air rushing past his arm from his torn sleeve. 

Illya moved instinctually through them, not guarding, just striking, pulling and throwing them to the cold ground. Nothing moved as he finished standing amongst the boneless forms, feeling numb and his chest heaving with spent exertion. His eyes roved around loosely with the lightheaded feeling and shaking of dissipating adrenaline. A discarded bottle lay on its side under a tree, catching the meager moonlight, and Illya held it, testing the weight. The heavy feeling in his hand was familiar, nostalgic. Just as the crest and troughs of uncontrolled emotion was familiar. It an overwhelming impulse to act, to direct the rush to replace what he felt.

It was overwhelming, irrational, and more powerful than anything he had felt since he was a twelve year old boy trying cover the shame and pain. In a twisted mirror it had felt all the same, alone, hurting and threatened. A child who should not have faced what he faced. And Illya suddenly realized he was, alone with only the panicked moans behind him for company, the sound of men who had wanted to harm him, who belittled him, but this time he defended himself. She had still not come to his aid. She would always ignore him now, forever unhearing, uncaring, unloving. 

Illya took a long drink, coughing. A bit of the liquor rose back up his throat, and he choked it down. He swallowed another large mouthful. The warm feeling was inadequate to combat his racing mind, not yet. Illya drank a bit more. His feet were leading him now, and he did not know where he was headed. It was a foreign city, bright lights, the promise of a future, a rebounding economy, but Illya cut through the refuse, the back alleys, keeping out of sight. 

The mania left him shaking, and he would have been cold if not for the artificial heat racing through his blood. He tried to think of something else, anything else. His thoughts only tore back to grief and relief. The scene he imagined was all he could see, her splayed out, disfigured, naked. A former lover’s revenge, the voice on the phone said, sneering, they had to assume it was she as it was her apartment. They had arrested a suspect, a traitor to the regime, who would be shot for the crime as it had been mistakenly made public. The suspect found had no real connection to the crime, and no further investigation seemed warranted. No one important died. The woman’s debauchery were crimes enough as her activities came to light after her death. Her effects were confiscated by the government, and he should be grateful not have to deal with the disposition. 

The description, the casual crudeness of the discussion, and the subtle hint that they were displeased with his decision to remain with U.N.C.L.E. without feeding them adequate intelligence impressed on Illya the underlying motive and fed his sense of responsibility. They did not say that they arranged it, or that they allowed it to happen, or it was unfortunate to lose the last live grip they had on him. Grief ripped at his mind, and he forgot where he was, who he was, and could only remember the bottle in his hand. He pulled from it again, and it went so easily, as his mind dulled. The mental scene revolved slower now and he drank again, and could only picture the scratched wooden door to the bedroom. 

The bottle flew from his fingertips, missing the bright lamppost to smash on a parked car. Lights flicked on in a window, and Illya broke into a shambling run. He tripped on a closed gate he failed to unlatch and crashed into a fence. Boards broke, and he slumped down into it, enjoying feeling the splinters of wood scrape into his back. He looked to his hand, surprised to find it empty, and looked around for another bottle of anything to appear like magic. Nothing did, so he lay there, and wondered how long it would take for anything to happen. How long it would take to feel something else but the confused and crushing sadness, anger and relief. 

Black Oxfords appeared under his nose from where he was stretched out on the cool grass, running his hands through the dirt, wondering how it felt on her skin. He wondered where they would bury her, if they would bury her at all or just add her to flames that swallowed his father. 

Someone was talking at him again. Illya ignored the tone, and concentrated on the feel of ground on his face, and the blood dripping down his back, and the burn on his arm like fire. It was a fitting punishment that he feel that, when he could feel nothing else of himself. And he tried not to think of her. He felt someone grab his shoulder, and he struck out, tried to break the hold. 

Panic gripped him, that night years ago when he had been as bloody and hurt as his mother had been, and that was too close in his memory for his dulled mind to distinguish from the present. His mind was trapped thinking of her, to when it was dark and cold, and he had been a child taken from the security of his assured immortality. He could not protect her then from pain and humiliation and was unable to protect her now. His thrashing arm was batted away and held. Illya tried to roll, but his arm was twisted out behind him, and he felt a knee in his back. The pressure, the contact was too much, and he cried out, bucking, feeling the strain in his arm, not scared to force the joint to get free. He had been unable to get away before, and he would never stop resisting now. He would not be trapped like that again, not give up to suffer punishments undeserved, and to watch her violated. 

The pressure on his arm released, and the knee came off his back in a sudden move, and Illya remembered he was not eleven again. It was different this time, this time a woman shouted angrily in his defence, worried, concerned, and out of love. The man’s grip had been stiff, restraining, but did not leave a lasting hurt. Illya tried to sit as the liquor swirled in his head; the world tilted violently and he could not help but close his eyes. 

A male voice answered her, a bit breathless, but not angry or aggressive. Calm, collected. Neither of them were speaking bitter Russian. Through the haze of the alcohol, Illya opened blurry eyes. Two figures stood, a dark suited man stood with a women wearing a blue nightgown. She was safe. She was alive, and she was unhurt. This was not twenty years ago, and this was not that night half a world away. Illya shook then understanding his failure, his openness and his weakness. He put his head in his bloodied hands and wept because his mother was dead and he was as powerless as he was the night years ago when her suitor had nearly broken them both. 

“Illya. Come inside,” she asked again. Her tone was tentative, light as a promise, and she was scared. Illya did not look at Gaby as she broke free from Solo’s hold and rested her palm on his drawn-up knee. “Waverly called me after you left. We know.” Knew that his traitorous mother was dead. 

Illya’s chest shook, and he let out a broken cracking, “Do not touch me.” He was not sure it was English.

“Oh, look at his hands.” Gaby mourned.

“Illya, can you stand?” The male voice asked in flawed Russian, but it was said with such composure, far too reasonable on a night like this. Illya did not know the answer. “If you don’t come in, our neighbours are going to phone the police, and we will all end up arrested. You could never go quietly, Gaby will end up emasculating someone, and I would never leave you both behind.”

“Please, Illya, I will let you break anything you wish inside. Please come in.” And hearing her beg, Illya felt so broken, and so empty. He had caused her to sound like that, not times when her life was threatened or her father killed. Her wild hair wisped around her face and he could not bear to see himself reflected in her soft eyes. Solo stood like steel, strong and unyielding, firmly between him and escape down the road. He felt so drained, so tired and could not find anything within to guide him. It was her soft entreaty and Solo’s stolid demeanor that compelled Illya to accept their help. He allowed them to draw him to his forgotten feet, and lead him into the building he had almost fooled himself into thinking was a home. They sat him at kitchen chair, and Gaby sat across from him. A thud of three glasses hit the table in front of them.

“Solo!” Gaby snapped, and Illya shrunk back from the tone in her voice. 

“They aren’t expensive. If they get broken, it will simple to replace them,” came the smooth answer.

“Don’t you think he’s had enough to drink, wherever he came by it?” Gaby clarified, understanding and ignoring how Solo had ignored her reprimand. 

“If you would like to start stitching him up like this, please go ahead. Otherwise, I have a bottle of absinthe that will make this much easier for the three of us.” Solo retorted and waited for her response. 

They were discussing the alcohol as if it was not in the cabinet behind the bar in the main room. It would be easy enough to grab. He might not even need to bring it back, since he could get into his bedroom from there. And it would be him alone, again. Illya stood then, feeling a wave of dizziness as he pitched over. He heard the sound of glass crashing to the floor. 

“It didn’t even break.” A warm arm interlocked with his and sat him down again. “Illya, wait here. Gaby’s going to get us a drink. Tell me about that opening again, the Chigorin variation.” 

Illya ignored Solo’s artificial question, obvious diversion, feeling his hands trembling again. Solo had stopped him from leaving, when that was all he wanted to do, to grieve by himself and to stop thinking about her now, and all those years ago. It seemed too similar in his memory, but this time he had not been there. 

“Stop,” Illya gritted, and tried to stand. 

“Illya, we aren’t on a mission. I can’t see Waverly putting you in the field until your head is on straight. Well straighter than right now. And you’re bleeding on my jacket. This is linen.” Solo said and moved to stand bodily in front of him as Illya successfully untangled himself from the chair. 

“Get out of my way, Solo.” Illya said, not sure what he wanted to do, but it was not sit here and be patronized, talked down to by an American who never felt anything.

“I don’t think that is a good idea, my friend. You are not fit to care for yourself.” Solo said frankly, and only Illya could hear the smugness in the tone.

“Friend? Leave.” Illya cautioned and pushed Solo back. Solo moved back gracefully, and he held up a hand and waved away in an odd gesture. 

“No. You’re surprisingly drunk, and we both know you handle unexpected turns rather poorly.” Solo said and squared his shoulders, his knees bent, feet apart. Solo’s hands hovered in front of him, at the level of his chest, and his blue eyes glinted. “Gaby. Back up.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Illya snapped, and lunged at the American with none of his usual grace or speed. Illya heard a gasp, and Solo caught him up in hold and squeezed him painfully.

“You don’t want to hurt me, but if you keep on like this, you will hurt yourself,” the cocky voice answered. Illya bowed back, and he felt Solo slam into the counter hard. The grip on his arms and neck did not loosen, a professional hold. He tried to bounce Solo again, but the American kicked his knee out, and Illya fell heavily forward. He hung nauseous, the world rotating and fresh pain emanating from his leg. 

“Please don’t try that again. How long do you think she’s going to let us fight?” Solo asked, directly into Illya’s ear. “Gaby might end up hurt. I know you’d rather me force you down before that happens.” 

Renewed guilt poured through him, as he felt the tremble in Solo’s voice and breath and saw a horrified look on Gaby’s face. There was a new tension in Solo’s body, short shallow breaths that must be hiding pain. The information read to him as a fighter’s insight, but it was pain Illya caused to a teammate. He glanced at where Gaby stood a bottle in her hand, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. And Illya gave up, and Solo let him go. He fell back.

“Still think he needs another drink?” Gaby asked venomously. 

“Never did, but needed you out of harm’s way,” Solo answered, loosening his tie. “Get Waverly back on the phone.” 

“Excuse me.” Gaby said, pushed past Solo and Illya was surprised to feel her tuck herself into his side. “Call him yourself.” She rested her face on his, and Illya was struck with the smooth feeling of her skin, and the faded smell of her perfume. 

“Gaby, be careful.” Solo said, sounding strained, and entirely more human than Illya was comfortable with. He turned and walked to the dining room office, keeping an eye on them until it was no longer possible. 

“Illya, you need to calm down, breathe slowly. With me.” And she put his large hand chest, the palm covering her breast, and she exaggerated her movements, inhaling ever so slowly, and he tried to match her. Her russet eyes swirled hypnotically, and he could feel his head dropping back to rest against a cabinet. “Good. Just like that.” Gaby dropped his hand from her breast, but kept holding it. “It’s okay to be sad, angry even. Please don’t run away from me. I’m here, always. And so is Solo.” 

Solo returned to the kitchen, and took a drink himself from a crystal decanter he’d brought with him. “Waverly will be here in the morning, he’s making a few calls tonight.” Solo took a chair, and looked consideringly at Illya and Gaby curled up on the floor. “You make quite a pair.” Illya shrank under the scrutiny, but Solo only pursed his lips. “Come on, Peril, we should get some water into you, before you pass out.” 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Gaby spoke into his neck and squeezed him meaningfully, though her voice remained gentle. The grip sent his heart racing again; a reaction he thought long since suppressed.. She felt him quiver and nuzzled against him once more. “It’s okay, calm down.” A moment of clarity struck him and he wished he’d never touched the bottle, never lowered inhibitions that had been carefully constructed. Solo’s sharp gaze missed nothing, and Illya watched him file away the flight response and the fear he was sure was written over his face. 

“I’m going to go get the medical chest from downstairs. Just stay put, okay, Peril? And Gaby, could you grab extra linens from the laundry.” Illya closed his eyes as Gaby left his side and he felt the warmth of her body fade away. He could hear muffled, undecipherable voices through the registers from the basement. It was not hard to guess what they spoke about. 

Gaby emerged first, her face a bit tighter, a large quilt in her hands. “I was saving this for winter,” she said rather timidly, and wrapped it around him where he still sat helplessly on the floor. She didn’t touch him, but he caught her fingertips before she moved away.

“Please?” Illya asked, not sure himself what he wanted, but she nodded and pulled him up and tucked herself against him bracingly.

“Remember the night where I got drunk, and you put me to bed. I was angry, worried about my father, and scared of you. I wanted to prove myself right, that you were an uncaring brute, so I did my best to antagonize you,” she whispered to him, in that soft British-edged Germanic accent. “I’ll put you to bed tonight instead.” 

“Do you think you can manage the stairs?” Solo asked, carrying a large tool chest, “Otherwise the sofa will have to do.” 

“My room is…” Illya started, surprised how small his voice seemed. 

“Is in need of redecorating, and I am willing to lend you my bed for the night.” Solo finished. “Do you need another arm?” The American did not move to touch Illya, but he felt hypervigilance sliding away to his own unsteadiness. 

“Yes.” Illya admitted. They maneuvered him to sit back in the chair, and Gaby peeled away the edge of the blanket to reveal a weeping cut. 

“Who’s the better seamstress?” Solo wondered. 

“You’ve sewn your own aprons,” Gaby said. 

Illya tried to listen to them, to appreciate the artificial lightness, but his stomach rose up to his throat, and his head spun. He tried to say something, to swallow, but it was Gaby who lightning swift grabbed a hanging cooking pot and thrust it under his face. He choked, and vomited helplessly. He saw Solo gag and turn to the sink. A rough dishtowel wiped off his mouth, and he surrendered into the chair, his eyes feeling heavy. 

“So, we aren’t making it upstairs tonight.” Gaby said. Illya heard the tinkling of a glass vial, and syringe. “Just a little lidocaine.” That stung more than the cut did, but he bit his lip, and then the smell of iodine bit his nose and then a needle.

“A cross stich maybe.” 

“I am seeing a whole other side of you.”

“Try being the only male in a large extended family of overbearing women.” Solo’s voice held humor. 

“No wonder you are smooth with the fairer sex. Your friend for tonight?”

“Will have to enjoy my company some other time. Or not, as she was a bit prim.” 

Despite Solo flicking on the harsh kitchen light, and bringing a lamp in from the foyer, Illya felt his limbs growing heavier, and the world slowly disappeared. “Just a pinch now, if it hurts, tell me.” Solo’s smooth familiar baritone lulled Illya away.

MFU

Illya opened his eyes again to fading afternoon light. Waverly and Solo sat hunched over an end table, and periodically the clatter of dice filled the room. Gaby sat at the foot of the overstuffed couch, his legs across her lap, and a thick book against his shin. He closed his eyes again before he was noticed, trying to center himself on the clap of stones across a wooden board, the clatter of the dice and flap of pages. 

“Illya, you should drink some water.” Gaby said softly. 

“Here, let me.” Solo rose from the game. Illya heard the rush of the faucet, and Solo crouched by his head. “Sit up slowly.” Solo pulled him up and tucked cushions behind his back. 

“I can.” Illya said, and took the glass in shaky hands. 

“Of course.” Solo agreed and backed away. “Drink the whole of it. It will help.”

“I’ve been hung over before.” Illya answered in a voice more muted than he hoped.

“Well you are Russian.”

Illya gagged, but managed to swallow back against the twist in his stomach. The vertigo and powerful pounding in his head carried on unabated. 

“Can you manage some aspirin?” Waverly produced a bottle and rattled it for effect. To Illya, it was as if his handler had brought together boulders. “And the sooner you can down a few the better, unless one of you two has a better hangover cure.” Illya winced away from accepting the pills. 

“Give him a minute.” Gaby said ever so softly. 

Illya waited and struggled to find that feeling of dreamless unconsciousness again. The longer he remained awake, the more of the night filtered back to him. Pieces were missing. He felt he should know why Solo was moving with less of his swagger, and wondered what he had done to put that guarded look in Gaby’s eye. 

The horror of the night was clear though and he felt his heart start to race again. The memory of what he had been told, and the dredged up remains of repressed history cut him sharply. There was nothing to dull it now, and he had nowhere to hide. The pounding of his head did not stop him from lurching to his feet. Solo came up under his arm as his knees wavered. Three sets of eyes on him were too many. It was Waverly who looked away first. 

“I need to go,” Illya started, the words coming clumsily to this dry thick mouth. 

“Without a doubt.” Solo steered him towards the back of the main floor, to the bathroom.

“Meant something else.” But the protest was hollow, because Solo was right. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” Solo hung almost awkwardly outside the small room. “Call if you need something, Peril.”

“I’m hung over, not an invalid.” Illya cut back quickly, and avoided looking the American in the eye as he pushed the door closed. 

“If only that.” Solo said, hopefully too quietly for Illya to hear. 

Illya stayed in the bathroom longer than he needed to, finding endless tasks to finish. He washed out his mouth, rinsed his face, and his hands. Examined the needle work pulling at his left bicep, the area reddened, but closed. He touched the cornered scar on his temple, and remembered the man who put it there, and everything else that was done that night. And he washed his hands again, and studiously did not look into the mirror. 

“Peril, feeling okay?”

His hands were bruised, his knuckles swollen and raw. He scrubbed harder into them, not aided by the rigid tapping in his fingers. He had taken poor care of himself. He had been weak, a liability. He had assaulted American citizens, possibly worse, and he did not have the shield of KGB here. 

The mirror shattered. 

The door was thrown open as the privacy lock clicked open only seconds after the glass started to fall. It bounced at the men’s feet, spreading down the hall. 

“Granted it wasn’t chic, but... No, don’t move.” Solo hovered anxiously where he stood. “Gaby, some shoes, please. Once we get out of this mess,” Solo bobbed his head, “you need to talk.” 

Illya could only nod, and he shifted his weight, trying to keep his balance against the swimming disorientation. If he fell, he knew Solo would literally walk on razors to catch him. 

“Just focus on the breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth.” Waverly came in between the two men holding a pair of unlaced boots. “Lean on me, and we’ll get these on.” The British man bent, providing a strong back to support them, belying his age, and Illya shamefacedly was helped to put on his shoes. It was unsettling having his handler, his commander seeing him at such a low. “There we are. Hurt your hand? Not badly, a little first aid is all, Kuryakin.” The Brit smiled as only the English do, stoically and politely.

Gaby appeared behind Solo with a pair of loafers. “I never liked that mirror.” 

Illya watched carefully as Solo brushed off his socks and removed them. A line of red cut into the side of his palm and the American hissed before dropping a small shard of glass. Waverly squeezed his arm hard, and pulled Illya from the room, as he felt faint watching the blood well against the white skin. 

“Kuryakin, can you explain to me what happened last night?” Waverly did not waste time, and only passed Illya a glass of water when his throat caught. The night’s events and conversations, what were not hidden by the fugue of psychosis were reported as dispassionately as a mission debrief. A particularly bad mission, failed, and Illya expected an immediate reprimand. He had acted thoughtlessly, and fearfully. He could not explain what had driven him, how he still felt more helpless than a child. Waverly only raised his brows, and the corners of his mouth tightened. 

“I see,” And that was all Waverly said in response. Illya felt his chest tighten. If nothing happened now, then he could only look forward to more creative discipline. “U.N.C.L.E. is on leave until I sanction another mission. You have my condolences, Kuryakin.” Waverly caught the eyes of his other two agents. “I’ll be back later tonight. Try and get some rest. I’ll clean up this mess.” 

Solo followed Illya up the stairs, and steered him towards the plush room the American spy kept. “Do try to be easier on my furnishings. Please.” Illya lay rigidly down and rolled unsuccessfully back and forth not finding a comfortable position. The knot in his chest would not release, and the trembling would not subside. The edge of the bed dipped, and Gaby grasped his shoulder, and pressing her thumb in small circles. 

“Illya, go back to sleep.” He tried to relax with her touch, but could only feel his control slipping away again, and his head pounded all the harder. His breath jerked out in harsh pants. He could not find the will to pull himself back under control. 

“Illya.” Solo said as he walked back into the room. Illya did not remember him leaving. The American pulled one of Illya’s clenched arms from beneath the blanket. “Do you trust me?”

Illya nodded shortly. 

“Just close your eyes, Peril. We won’t let anything happen.” Illya felt the prick of needle, the burn of the injection, and the slow taste of a drug fill his mouth with metal tinge. A spike of fear shot through him as he the unknown concoction worked through him. But all he saw was the American’s crinkled and bruised eyes that held his until Illya faded away. 

 

MFU

The dark-haired man grinned and Illya could see blood in his beard. A large blur backhanded his face, and Illya’s head snapped to where his mother lay whimpering nude on the floor. “If you say another word, boy, I’ll carve out your tongue.” Illya opened his mouth to yell, so the neighbours would have to hear, and the knife flashed out. Illya jerked back, but felt warm blood spilling down his temple. “That should have been your eye.” And the man slid the knife the down Illya’s back as he reeled away, feeling clothing and flesh falling open. “I’ll teach you intrude on a man in the bedroom.” 

A nightmare was chased away by the harsh awakening to a man’s voice, Solo’s voice raised in in uncharacteristic displeasure. “They cannot be disavowing that call. That is horseshit, Waverly.”

“Do keep your voice down, Solo.” Waverly said. 

Illya was struck with how much his head and body ached. He shivered and struggled to contain his rising nausea. “Easy does it now, chap. There’s a bucket close if you need.”

“Your mother died of what was likely a stroke,” Solo said, his voice still bitter, though quieter. “It was quick, painless. She collapsed at the market.”

Illya lay, numb, empty, a host of wrangled memories uncovered from years ago floating behind his eyes. “Whatever they said to you was a lie. They hoped you would fly off the handle and burn your place in this organization, come back to them begging for revenge. Or perhaps they just wanted you to get yourself killed.”

“Solo.” Gaby tried to interrupt. 

“Mr. Solo. That’s enough for now,” Waverly said firmly. Illya remained immobile, trying to reconcile the images that played in his mind. “Your handler has officially denied authorizing that call, and states he did not know such a vicious rumour had started.”

“She is still dead.” Illya said simply, and cringed at the headache that rose up with his fleeing temper. He heard delicate footfalls against the rug in the center of the room, and a small hand brushed under his eyes, smearing wetness. 

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Gaby’s soft voice said. He wanted to lean into her caress, but he was acutely aware of his superior and Solo standing there. The disparity played in his mind and he could not understand how to feel. Everything brought up again, all the horror he felt had been fake, unnecessary. He felt so distant now, as if everyone was moving away from him. 

“Waverly, Solo,” Gaby’s voice was no louder, but crisp. “Go. Now.” 

The door shut. 

Gaby pulled him to sit up, blanket falling to his waist, and she embraced him hard. “Illya. Whatever you need to do.” He was anchored there smelling the scent of her hair, and feeling her face against his shoulder. He sat numbly in her arms, and tried to push away the anger, and the pain. He had been betrayed into revealing such a dark, deep weakness, and he fallen hard into it. 

“Why make up that story? It means more to you than the obvious cruelty,” she spoke into his chest not moving away from him. 

He told her slowly in Russian what had happened when he was twelve. How he broke down his mother’s door when she started screaming and wailing and then stopped. That he hit the man with the iron poker for the stove, only once, then it was taken from him. And what the man had done to him, the cut, and the rest; how he lay too sore and scared to move as the man finished raping his mother. 

Gaby stayed in his arms, her strong fingers tightening where she gripped his back. From her reaction, she had comprehended what he said. He felt wetness spreading on his shirt where her face tucked into his shoulder, and water splashed onto her head. 

“Illya, I’m sorry.” 

“I lost her a long time ago.” 

 

MFU

 

Ten days later, Waverly returned. Solo appeared from the kitchen, spatula in hand and apron tied around his neck. Gaby and Illya entered the parlour from the first floor bedroom. Gaby held a drywall knife, and had a large streak of spackle on her cheekbone. Illya had a retaliatory handprint of white dust on his black sleeve. 

“A bit of business concluded then.” Waverly nodded to them. “You may wish to read this over, Kuryakin,” He dropped a file folder on the credenza. “Not light reading, I’m afraid.” 

Illya eyed the manila folder carefully. “This is beyond dispute?” 

“I ensured Oleg did not dare allow a breach of security to go uninvestigated and unpunished.” Waverly answered. 

“How convenient. Found a scapegoat, did they?” Solo said, disbelief clear in his voice. 

“It was no patsy. I, for one, do not allow such tampering with my agents.” Waverly said resolutely. 

Illya looked up at the protectiveness in his voice. “I am KGB first.”

“Actually, no. Oleg was himself stripped of some assets, and I assumed control of your file. His superior had less of an interest… in dealing with an agent of your specifications, and foresaw the need to have a permanent stake in an internationally cooperative organization.” 

“So you stole the KGB’s best out from under them,” Solo summarized, a touch of awe in his tone. 

“You will have no further direct contact with the KGB, unless you want to end your ties with U.N.C.L.E. and go back to the U.S.S.R.” Waverly smiled again, the same polite façade that did not reach his blue eyes. “You should take your time to decide.”

Illya watched Solo swallow, as his face tightened to the blank mask he had not seen since Rome, and heard a sharp intake of breath from Gaby. Both stayed quiet, though Gaby’s respirations increased, and the presence of the artificial expression on Solo’s face betrayed more than the American would assume. 

“Nothing is for me there. I can serve my country with more efficiency here.” Illya answered. Solo’s eye twitched. And Gaby’s breath caught in her throat. 

“You need to think through your options.” Waverly insisted. 

Illya shook his head at that. “It sounds like again I am pariah in Russia. Even Oleg’s chief does not want to deal with me.” Solo’s painfully calculated mask locked back into place, and Gaby shifted uneasily, almost stepping back from him. He read his partners easily, their insecurity evident. Illya felt dismay that his behaviour had opened any room for doubt or seeds of disloyalty. “This is not my reason. I would never abandon my team, my comrades.” 

Illya watched Solo’s mouth twitch up imperiously. Gaby’s breath hissed out uneasily. “I would not leave you, my love.” Illya whispered in Russian, knowing full well that it was not a secret to anyone in the room. 

Gaby pulled him into a short scalding kiss. “Do not play with me,” she said back, her accent thick and stumbling. 

“Never.” Illya touched her right hand that now wore the black pearl ring, speckled with drywall.

“Very good then.” Waverly nodded. “At this point funeral rites have been properly observed. However, I do not think it wise to send you to Moscow now. I perhaps ruffled a few feathers.” 

Illya swallowed hard, blinking away his distress. It was a disrespect to the woman who bore him, but Illya could easily guess what grudges were held now. “It would not be good for a British spy behind the Iron Curtain.” Gaby echoed. 

“I am not British.” Illya said quietly, feeling another loss.

“You are not considered rogue, Kuryakin. I do conduct my negotiations more delicately than that. You may return at any time after some of the immediate tensions have dissipated,” Waverly said, a hint of pride showing. “But like Agent Teller, you are mine, and to that end, I insist we cooperate with friendly law enforcement agencies when appropriate.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You will meet me tomorrow at 0900 at the station house where you will relate the attempted mugging that occurred eleven days ago, and admit to disabling five wanted drug cartel associates, all wanted for murder.” Waverly took a breath. “Your involvement will of course not progress to trial and your name will be redacted. The local police would like to know, however, why they had to apprehend the men in such condition.” Waverly paused. “And Kuryakin, we will thereafter meet a friend of mine, Dr. Glasser.” Waverly finished, leaving a folder on the table. “Otherwise, I fear I need to look into a new bit of business for U.N.C.L.E. in the South Americas. Be ready to deploy in a week.”

Solo did not let his face relax until Waverly left, a brave show, Illya thought, but unnecessary. “Peril. I’m sorry you didn’t get to go back in time for the funeral,” the American began, his voice a bit rougher than usual. Illya opened his mouth but didn’t even get a breath out. “It’s not okay! But I’m pleased you are here.”

Solo paged through the file, cobalt eyes examining the papers contemptuously. “We won’t forget this.” Illya nodded, unable to voice his appreciation. 

The CIA’s most effective agent looked more resolved than Illya had seen before as he handed the documents to Gaby. She skimmed through, noting the same names and faces. “I wonder if they know just how badly they’ve made a mistake.” Her tone was chillier than Illya had ever heard. She gave him a dangerous smile. 

Solo clasped his arm. “Right, comrade,” he dipped back into the kitchen, and Illya heard a pot scratch across the burner. “Stroganoff for supper, slightly burned?” 

“He assumes all Russians like Stroganoff.” 

“Don’t you?” Gaby asked in a conspiratorial whisper. 

“I am Russian,” Illya answered, and it was not quite a ‘yes’.

**Author's Note:**

> This was difficult to write. I hope the emotions and the turmoil came across.  
> Many thanks to my wonderful beta rebelliousrose who put many hours into improving this. I can only apologise for taking so long to go through with it myself.


End file.
